


House of Ransom

by TarvaBaggins



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29563830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarvaBaggins/pseuds/TarvaBaggins
Summary: I don't know how to do summaries.  This one is just...like...a little snapshot kind of thing from the attack on Bar-en-Danwedh or whatever.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Túrin Turambar





	House of Ransom

**Author's Note:**

> Túrin almost definitely thought that Beleg died at Bar-en-Danwedh. This conveniently makes Taur-nu-Fuin even more awful.  
> One round of depression for everybody, on the house.  
> It's like the shortest fic I've ever written. Almost didn't even want to upload it here because it's so short...

Túrin struggled against the rough hands of the orcs that jostled him cruelly as they wound chains around his wrists, securing them behind his back. Suddenly he brought his head back with a sharp jerk, and despite the stars that swirled in his vision he felt a grim satisfaction at the crunching sound that rang out as his head made contact with the point of the chief orc’s jaw. The fingers that closed about Túrin’s left arm relaxed for a brief moment and he wrenched his hand free, the still-loose chain slipping from his wrist. But before he had a chance to do anything, the hand was caught again, tighter than before. The new orc pulled Túrin’s arm back at an angle that sent pain shooting up to his shoulder, causing him to involuntarily draw a sharp breath; and in a moment there were fetters on his wrists, along with the chains and a rough rope that cut into him when he strained against it.

He cast a frantic glance about the hilltop. Where were the others? There were so many bodies on the ground, and not all of them were orcs. Only three of Túrin’s band were still standing—no, now only two—one only. Beleg. He had spent all of his arrows and now stood on the other side of the hill, wielding his elven sword Anglachel with both hands, hewing down every orc that came within reach. In a moment of respite, he looked around him and an expression of dismay flitted across his face as he discovered that he fought alone. He leaped backwards so that he stood with his back pressed against the tall stone in the center of the hilltop, the same stone that he and the outlaws had grouped around together only a matter of minutes ago.

At that moment the orc behind Túrin kicked his legs from underneath him and Túrin cried out as he fell to his knees and the orc started to drag him, struggling, across the rough ground. At Túrin’s cry Beleg looked towards him and, seeing his plight, sprang away from the protection of the rock. In an instant Túrin saw the orc archer crouched behind a rise in the ground, an arrow nocked to the bowstring and drawn far back, waiting.

“No, Beleg, no!” Túrin cried. But it was too late. The arrow flew, and Beleg stumbled. Before he had even hit the ground, a half a dozen orcs were upon him—one wielding a net just like the one they had used to capture Túrin—blocking Túrin’s view. He heard Beleg’s voice cry out once, and then no more. A red haze filled Túrin’s vision and with a scream of anger he lunged forward, not feeling the rope cutting into his wrists again, not feeling the orcs’ claws digging into his arms and shoulders as they pulled him back. One twisted hand covered his mouth and Túrin sank his teeth into the grimy palm, feeling a sudden rush of hot blood fill his mouth. The orc screeched. Its other hand closed about Túrin’s throat and he felt himself being shaken violently. His vision was just starting to go black when an orc voice spat out a harsh order and the hand around his throat relaxed and pulled away. Túrin toppled forward onto the ground and coughed for a while, trying to stop the spinning in his head and the pain in his throat, while the orcs quarreled and fought somewhere above him. At last he managed to roll onto his side. The orcs around Beleg were beginning to return to the rest of the troop and Túrin caught a glimpse of a figure lying very still on the ground, and the early moonlight glinted scarlet off a pool of blood.

“Beleg,” Túrin gasped. An orc seized the back of his collar and hauled him to his feet. “Beleg!” Túrin screamed again. “Say something!” But there was no reply from the elf. Túrin numbly allowed himself to be pulled towards the path that led down off the hilltop, but just as they were about to reach it, he kicked suddenly against the leg of the orc that led him. The orc was thrown off balance and Túrin tore away in a stumbling run until he fell to his knees by Beleg’s side. The elf’s eyes were closed and a thread of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. There was no movement, not even the faint rise and fall of the chest that would have showed that he was breathing. Nevertheless, the orcs had gone to the trouble of tying him down with chains and ropes, securing him to stakes that they had driven into the rough ground, as if they feared him even in death. Túrin’s eyes filled with tears and he sank to the ground, laying his face beside Beleg’s. There hadn’t been time yet for the chill of death to take over, and Túrin shut his eyes, trying to resist this new reality. But now the orcs had come up behind him; and as they dragged him away, one orc laughed roughly and kicked Beleg’s body while leering at Túrin. Túrin’s heart raged, but he found he didn’t have the strength to break away again, so instead he cursed the orc mightily and his eyes flashed, though the orc seemed not to care.

The other orcs bound Túrin’s legs and they half-dragged, half-carried him to the path that led down off the hill, away from where Beleg would lie forever, quiet and forgotten under the stars. As they went, Túrin was jolted painfully and he often struck against rocks or was cut by the unyielding branches of the dead bushes, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

He would never see Beleg again.

**Author's Note:**

> No offense, but screw Mîm (aka Blodrin, aka please-fall-off-a-cliff-and-die-or-something).
> 
> As I mentioned in the notes of my last Children of Húrin fic, I’ve always read Beleg and Túrin’s relationship as platonic. Though I guess I didn’t really need to say that for this one, since there wasn’t really anything in it that could be interpreted as romantic anyway.


End file.
